One complaint from columnist Greg Couch who wrote the article. Serena Williams may have fudged on her actual weight. She would set a positive example by owning up. I like his message that young girls should check out  Williams and the other athletes they included as these women look healthy and strong. Unlike the Ralph Lauren Model who was photo-shopped to impossible skinniness and who looks like could use a month of super-sized meals.

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What woman in her right mind wants people to evaluate her hooters? Well if you look at the photo of Maria-Grazia-Cucinotta who starred in the wonderful movie Il Postino (About poet Pablo Neruda) broadcasting hers for the audience I guess you have your answer.

I know flashing your flesh sells magazine covers and gets people involved in polls, but I find it discouraging at best. These pushed up, pushed out, primped up breasts would lead anyone’s mind directly to one thing. I include myself so I won’t blame you for being one of them. 

Actress Susan Sarandon said, “For years I was more famous for my boobs than for my talent. [But] it is very hard to be naked in a scene and not be upstaged by your nipples. People don’t even hear what you are saying for the first 30 seconds if you are standing there nude.”

If you’d rather people notice your insights than the size and shape of your breasts, then keep them under wraps — or at least don’t make them front and center. Don’t do anything to distract the public from your point. Breasts that draw attention at a first impression will upstage any talent or intelligence.

Can breasts be a good attention grabber without exploitation? Yes. Cleavage Creek wine developed an innovative PR campaign using photos of women who had breast cancer and featured them on their fine wines.

Owner Budge Brown, who lost his wife to breast cancer in 2005, and Cleavage Creek are dedicated to making exceptional wines and to fighting breast cancer. 10% of gross wine sales is donated to fund breast cancer research and support. They have donated over $55,000 to breast cancer causes. October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month so this is an excellent time to promote their wines, and the brave woman on their labels, in a tasteful manner.

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“We in the Church of Eighty Percent Sincerity do not believe in miracles,” he said. “But we do believe that you have to stay alert, because good things happen. When God opens the door, you’ve go to put your foot in. Eighty Percent Sincerity is about as good as it’s going to get. So is Eighty Percent compassion. Eighty Percent celibacy. So twenty percent of the time, you just get to be yourself.”

I love the way Roche cuts you slack for not being perfect. We’re all on the road called “trying.” We’re “trying” to live a life of 100% sincerity and when we fall short it’s not so serious. He takes the smugness out of sincerity.

Writer Anne Lamott says, “In the Church of 80% Sincerity, you definitely don’t have to look good, but you are supposed to meditate.

According to David’s instructions, you sit quietly with your eyes closed and you follow your breath in and out of your body, gently watching your mind.

Your mantra should go like this: ‘Why am I doing this? This is such a waste! I have so much to do! My butt itches…’ And if you stick to it, he promises, from time to time calm and peace of mind will intrude. After some practice with this basic meditation, you will be able to graduate to panic meditations, and then sex fantasy meditations. And meditations on what to do when you win the lotto.

When David insists you are fine exactly the way you are, you find yourself almost believing him.”

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Summer nights are quite balmy here in Marin. The upcoming Indian summer promises to be a warpath of high temps and scalding sunshine. After being a fog friendly San Francisco Girl these past 25 years – I’m adjusting to the new climate and dramatic wardrobe differences. Even my sleeping attire has changed.

I’d forsaken my classic uniform: the flannel Lanz nightie months ago – and have been on a quest for the coolest (every pun intended) sleeping attire. From gowns, loungewear, men’s-style cotton pajamas to my birthday suit. I’ve been hot on the trail of locating the perfect sleepwear.

Baby doll pajamas were the rage in high school – and oh, baby, I am no longer that ‘doll’. Next. I don’t have enough foot traffic and company to warrant the purchase of a luxurious Peignoir set and as far as I’m concerned, Victoria can’t keep a Secret. Next.

I was recently at that popular chain of French Dept Stores: Target.  I was hoping to economically replace the very cool $70.00 Hobie sunglasses I’d lost, for a stylish $10.00 pair of sunglasses and I could lose and not care about.

While strolling the aisles I happened to notice men’s, colored T-shirts: “greatly reduced”. Aha! A sleeping shirt! And a major bargain…I found an XL Kelly green shirt for a mere $1.98. What a deal!

Then I wandered by the vast Lingerie department.  I perused the voluptuous racks of sleeping attire. I felt like Goldilocks – this one’s too hot; this one too small; this one too gaudy- what were they thinking?  And, then I spied a nightie that was just right! It was a stunning leopard print, spaghetti straps, shortie, nightie – which might double as a cocktail dress, (perhaps worn over black cigarette pants, heels, dangling earrings).

For $16.00

Whimsically, I bought it. What the heck? I could always return it.

When I got home, I tried it on. Whoa – good nightie!

Have you ever looked in the mirror – and been so impressed with what you saw, you thought:  “Where’s the party? I need to be seen.”  Me, either – but, that’s exactly what crossed my mind.

Later that night, I put on the soft, green T-shirt and I realized I looked like a big shamrock. I pulled off the ‘tent’ and put on my sexy, pretty, leopard print and decided: Life is short. You can look like a schlump when you’re 90.  Now is the time to be sexy, fun, and cool.

Give me your tired, your poor ol nightgowns,
Your flannel, your muu muus, your T-shirts galore
The wretched refuse of your dresser drawer
Send these, the tawdry, and the tasteless to St Anthony.
I lift my glass beside the boudoir door

~ Page Larkin

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

~ Emma Lazarus

Page Larkin, San Francisco columnist for the Examiner.com, writes about Life in the Faust Lane: Dating at 50. A devotee of the thinking of Mae West, she concurs, “To err is human, but it feels divine”. See Larkin on Facebook and http://suddenlysingleminded.wordpress.com

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At first, a few weeks ago, he stopped his car on his way home, leaned out his window and said I was looking leaner by the day. I fondled his two tiny dogs while we chatted about my Aikido training.

Yesterday, when I passed his house on my walk, he mentioned that he kept seeing me on the CNBC The Oprah Effect and that I looked good on the show. I joked that it was all the make-up and good lighting. But he kept hedging. “You are about one-third of your original size,” he said.

“Oh TV ads ten pounds,” I said. “I was the same weight then as I am now, I just looked chunkier on TV.”

Finally, he came out with it. “I prefer women with more meat on them.” Well, I’m not sure he noticed but I’m not his wife. So this is not information I need to know.

I confess that after that conversation I spent some time fretting over my arms getting a bit too cut from Aikido weapons training with the jo (long stick) and bokken (wooden sword). But I like the way they look. Kind of like Michelle Obama’s arms only shorter and chubbier. It’s happening naturally. My sweetie Will said that my arms looked toned and fit. His opinion is the one that matters.

But here’s the thing. I want to get to the point where I don’t fret for even one second about what anyone thinks about my body. Which leads me to the next point. Why do men think that they can just comment on it and tell me that I don’t match their preferences? I’m in a relationship. So is my neighbor. What does he care about the muscularity of my arms anyway? Who is he to say that my onion is too big or too small?

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One blog commentor wrote:
Ladies: this is NOT attractive. she appears a little too old to be wearing something so revealing; and what she is revealing looks a little too saggy to be revealed. maybe it’s her poor posture in the photo that’s doing it, but it makes me wince.

A few others had a sense of humor about it:
I’ve seen enough celebrity nipples to last for the rest of my life. Not only is it tasteless, but just plain immodest. Get a grip. Otherwise it’s a pretty dress. Wear a chemise, okay?

I STRONGLY feel that ALL attractive women should dress this way.

All the time.

And jog more.

In place even.

And one lamented the loss of her fuller figure:
Y’know, I love Jennifer Connelly. Always have. It’s just such a damn shame that when she started out as a full-figured, voluptuous, gorgeous young woman, Hollywood convinced her she was fat. One breast reduction surgery and 20 yrs of starvation later, and she’s a stick. A beautiful, very talented stick, but still a stick. Makes me sad.

What is it in women that makes them want to put their privates on display? Love to hear what you think. Would you wear this red dress? Why, or why not.

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I was talking to a colleague who I respect. We were chatting away and suddenly his head turned and locked. Silence. He became mesmerized. No, his brain froze or fried on the spot when a tall woman wearing a tight bright top revealing the exact shape of her breasts began to dance. Her pants hung so low you could almost glimpse her betty.

I thought about snapping my fingers, waving my hand in front of his face, or just walking away. I doubt he would have noticed. Then I realized I was mad. And jealous.

I was mad because I wasn’t commanding his attention with my presence. Sure, I could have yanked down my top so the effectiveness of my push-up bra could be revealed. I could have danced seductively too. But that’s not me. I want to be taken seriously — as a woman, I want to be listened to, cherished, not gawked at.

It’s not that I don’t recognize the power of skin. I just choose not to use it. Years ago, a friend told me that while she was talking to a man she liked she hiked her shorts up a bit so he could get a better look at her legs. This idea was so foreign to me at the time I couldn’t even imagine doing such a thing.

All my life my mother insisted I buy loose clothes to hide my ample ass. It didn’t work. The entire African American male population frequently commented on my “booty.” Some said that I must have Hottentot in my Caucasian ancestry.

Since then I’ve experimented a bit more showing a hint of cleavage, some thigh, clingy pants, but I wouldn’t want the general public to know if I had a Brazilian. Perhaps I’m alone on this. I always thought that a good present gave the most pleasure when it was beautifully wrapped.

Follow Susan Harrow on Twitter: www.twitter.com/soundbitesiren

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Scene: I am wolfing down my fifth gob of St. Andre triple crème cheese that has enough fat in it to feed half the starving children in Africa. My friend pulls a box of coconut milk out of her refrigerator and tells me that she drinks this daily.

It’s fat free.

I am immediately shamed that I am a size 4 while she is a tiny 2. If I didn’t love fat so much maybe I wouldn’t have that extra jiggly stuff on my arms. Perhaps I wouldn’t need to worry about “muffin top.” Recently, on our way out to a party, when I modeled my outfit to my sweetie Will, said to me out of kindness, “Honey, you look good in those pants and I like your little feminine pooch whereas a lot women your age have a huge one.”

I’m the kind of gal who, when she makes Chicken Coconut Soup, eats that thick layer of fat off the top of the coconut milk can before I pour the rest into the watery stuff into the pan for the broth. I think the pooch is here to stay.

I remember that when my brother came back to the U.S. after living in Austria for twenty years one of the hardest adjustments he had to make had to do with our eating habits. What struck him most was how obsessed we Americans are about food. Not the pleasure of it, the calories.

We measure every single thing that goes into our mouths and then feel guilty about stuff that’s not categorized as “healthy.” Which is like every major pleasure that I know of. I’m big on butter myself. I’m with Julia Child who says that you can’t have too much butter. I slather up my gluten free bagel until it drips into my eggs that were cooked in butter. The secret to my fluffy rice? Butter.

But here’s the thing. I don’t butter up everything every day. When I have it I savor it. I don’t think about tomorrow. I don’t think about the saying I grew up hearing every time I ate a morsel of something delicious, “A second on the lips, forever on the hips.” I don’t spend time feeling guilty about it. I don’t count the calories. The next day I eat a few more fresh veggies and I don’t weigh myself. I believe a woman should have a little pooch. It’s part of what makes us womanly. I think I’ll ask my sweetie if he wants butter with that.

Follow Susan Harrow on Twitter: www.twitter.com/soundbitesiren

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